


A Miracle in Thunder

by LazyBaker



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:04:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/pseuds/LazyBaker
Summary: Christmas morning, Steve’s pulling into a nearly empty parking lot to open Family Video on his own.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 46
Kudos: 398
Collections: Harringrove Holiday Exchange 2019





	A Miracle in Thunder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iamladyloki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamladyloki/gifts).



> for iamladyloki! I hope you enjoy this story! And I hope you're having a wonderful holiday!

Steve’s used to spending Christmas alone. His parents can be home, they can be in another state, either way the day ends the same—Steve doing his own thing in his corner of the world while his parents do their thing in their corners. There’s some present swapping. Some polite smiling. Steve tosses what his parents get him onto his bed. He goes to meet up with literally anyone he’s not related to. That’s Christmas.

As a kid, he used to have his grandpa to lasso him into the extended Harrington family.

Now, he doesn’t.

Now, he has a job.

Christmas morning, Steve’s pulling into a nearly empty parking lot to open Family Video on his own. Under the awning, leaning against the door on his way to catching hypothermia and losing one of his fingers is Billy. Snow melts on his black hoodie and jean jacket, the hood pulled up over his head, one hand in his pocket and chewing on the thumbnail of the other. Has his fingerless gloves on. Pink cheeked and pink nosed, turning blue in the lips.

 _Idiot_.

Billy’s never quite figured out how to dress for Indiana. Sometimes Steve likes to imagine what Billy must have been like in California before moving here, before the fight at the Byers’ house and before Starcourt Mall, if he just ran around the beach naked day and night getting into brawls with sharks.

It’s not a line of thinking Steve follows too often. He tries not to, at least. Tries to focus on what’s happening now. Not what did. Not what could.

Steve unwinds the scarf from his own neck and wraps it around Billy’s, careful to not touch him, covering Billy up to his glaring blue eyes with green wool. Makes sure it’s snug.

Billy’s told him California doesn’t get snow, not unless you go up north. _No one worth shit goes up north and if you do it’s only because you can’t book it to Mexico._

“Merry Christmas?” Steve tries. It’s what he’s been saying since December first to anyone who comes within ten feet of Family Video. _Merry Christmas and come back soon, ya hear._

Billy tugs the scarf down. A wispy sliver of wool sticks to this upper lip. Green suits him. Steve doesn’t think there’s a color out there that wouldn’t suit Billy Hargrove.

“I’m freezing my balls off, open the door already.” Billy says, going for gruff and ending with a sniffle. His nose is chapped and runny. It’s not even _that_ cold.

“Where’s your Christmas spirit?” Steve says just to be a shit, just to annoy Billy, get under his ribs a little. Has finally figured out a year after Billy moved here that plastering on a smile and being cheery will rile Billy up just as much as throwing a punch and landing it.

Billy spits on the ground. It melts the snow. Eight in the morning and Steve’s rolling his eyes already.

“Broke off along with my dick. Hurry the hell up.”

“That’s why you gotta get insulated underwear. I keep telling you and you keep not listening and now you’ve got no dick while mine’s bundled up and cozy.”

Billy’s disgusted. Head snaps down to check, looks Steve up and down while cringing like he’ll be able to tell under Steve’s puffy _very insulated_ jacket and jeans if he’s sporting a pair of long-johns. Steve jingles his keys at him.

Steve’s the only one working today.

He volunteered to cover both Robin and Keith’s shifts. Open it up alone. Close it up alone. Robin’s got a big family, more than twenty people all camped out in her house, has to share her room with three of her little cousins. Keith has, like, five little brothers and sisters and his parents are divorced.

Steve’s just a good person. Heart made of gold. Totally not avoiding another yearly round where he’s reminded how little his family knows him or cares about him while they’re in Indianapolis and he’s stuck in Hawkins. He’s an _adult_ now and has to _learn_ to be _independent_.

Steve’s, like, a great guy. Solid.

Definitely material for employee of the month.

 _Finally_.

Robin’s had full reign over the title since they both started and it’s _time_ for Steve to get a minute in the spotlight. He’s the one who went and bought and dragged in the evergreen all by himself because Robin didn’t want to get sap on her clothes and Keith just _didn’t._ Steve’s decorated the store from top to bottom. Hung the ornaments and the stockings. He wears his dumb Santa hat every day with only some complaining. He’s the _only_ one out of the three of them that can look any girl in the eye when they’re checking a tape out.

Steve has contributed. He can be late every day and Keith can dislike every one of his picks for movies of the week, but he has _contributed_ and he’s here by himself on _Christmas_ and he _deserves_ to be employee of the month and his parents don’t know _shit_ about him and that’s how it’s always been and that’s not going to change and he’s so completely and totally fine with it. He’s an adult. He can handle the ugly family facts.

Billy goes in first, narrowly avoids touching Steve or Steve steps back and outta the way—he’s got no idea anymore, just a reflex he’s developed thanks to new sorta-probably-what-else-could-you-call-it-really friendships and Hawkins’ being the pits leading to the two of them becoming _this_.

Billy flips the sign on the door to OPEN.

Steve turns the old heater on first then the lights. Is quick to stack up the returns to be rewound _not_ today. Stocks the shelves back up with the candy he’ll be eating as payment for his overtime. Gets the register ready for no one because no one’s coming in.

The chances of anyone besides him and Billy walking through the Family Video doors are slim to none.

This is Hawkins. Sundays are slow. Sundays _on Christmas_ turn quaint freak-show Hawkins into a ghost town.

There’s a note taped to the register with _STEVE_ written on it.

_Come by my house when your shift is over. Bring Billy if he’s feeling it. Don’t be sad. MERRY CHRISTMAS, NERD - R._

The writing’s messy. She must have written it right before they closed up last night. Steve smiles. Folds it into his pocket and keeps on smiling until Billy slides _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ across the counter next to Steve’s first pick of the day— _Santa Claus Is Comin’ To Town_. Nudges Steve’s pinky with it twice.

There’s one TV in the back room used for rewinding the VHS tapes. That’s why there’s a couch from the 60s in there too with nothing but stains and a specific scent no one can place. _For rewinding_.

Steve’s gonna watch _his_ movies today and Billy can just, like, _shove it_.

In a nice way.

Because it’s Christmas.

“Uh, yeah. No. So much no.” Steve says. Pushes the VHS back towards Billy.

“ _Yes._ So much _yes_.” Billy has the _nerve_ to say and picks the tape up, waves it in Steve’s face instead.

That’s not obnoxious. Who said almost dying would give a guy perspective to change his ways?

“Do I gotta get a newspaper— _no_.”

Billy tugs off Steve’s scarf. Pulls his hood down to really give his glare center stage. His messy hair tumbles out in tangled up, greasy, knotted curls.

He’d been voted _Best Hair_ back when they graduated, which seems genuinely like a couple lifetimes ago. Billy’s really not upholding the title he stole from Steve.

Steve’s hair? Graceful. Glorious. Goddamn Perfection. Rain or snow, Steve’s hair is _righteous_. Gray hairs and all.

Billy though—Steve has this unbridled, raging-pitying-need-filled urge to reach out and start picking at all those tangles, get his nails involved, get the comb and spray out of his car and bring those curls back to life, to how they looked during the summer. That urge is _overwhelming_. Steve’s gotta snap his molars together on the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check.

He’d scrub Billy down and spray him with Farrah Fawcett in a heartbeat if there wasn’t a 50/50 chance of Billy snapping or crying.

Steve could handle being murdered. It’s not like he’s got much going on. No new lease on life. No grand plans for his future. Get tortured by some Russians who nearly cave his skull in—what’s _dying_ compared to night terrors and constantly flinching when anyone tries to touch him?

Seeing Billy cry though. That’s. Like. _Happened_. Steve can’t do that again. And he can’t be the _reason._

Steve slaps the tape out of his face.

“You would _literally_ have to _pay_ me actual money to watch _that_ again and I don’t think your wallet’s deep enough.”

Billy leans on the counter so he can lean his way into Steve’s space, fill up Steve’s view with nothing but Billy’s not so freckly face now that it’s winter and Billy’s no longer being powered by the sun. Breath smelling like toothpaste and insomnia. Bags weigh heavy under his red rimmed eyes.

He must not be sleeping again. Steve can relate. Steve should tell him to take a nap.

“Don’t worry about my wallet, pretty boy.” Billy purrs, out loud, with that smooth Classic Hargrove expression appearing on his face like he has a job and he doesn’t come to hang out at Family Video for every one of Steve’s shifts and like Steve hasn’t noticed. “How much?”

“A million dollars.” Steve puts both hands on the counter. Gets an inch from Billy’s face. Nearly feels the tickle of Billy’s mustache. “Cash. Twenties only. I will not accept checks or IOUs.”

Billy reels back to his side of the counter. Nearly throws his arms up and stops himself with gritted teeth aimed at everyone in the store.

“It’s a good movie.”

“For Christmas?”

“For every damn day.” Billy nudges the tape back to Steve and Steve ignores it. “You really wanna watch a kid’s movie?”

“Maybe I just wanna feel, like, Christmassy or something? Like? That sounds good, you know?” Steve says.

Billy shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t. It just sounds like jingle bell bullshit.”

“Well,” there’s a lot Steve could do with _that_ except he won’t because they don’t talk about _that_ , “I wanna not feel gross then. I had to shower after watching it the first time.” Tommy’s older brother had a bootleg copy of it. Neither one of them could sleep afterwards. They both pretended it was because they were having _so much fun_. “The hammer scene? With the girl at the end? You wanna watch that on the—the _Lord’s_ day? Baby Jesus’ birthday, Billy? Really?”

Billy chews at his lip, gets his thumb close to his teeth and bites at what’s left of his nail. An old tic that’s just gotten worse since high school, since the summer. Steve’s seen him chew his thumb bloody, nearly bite right though it.

Steve’s restocked Family Video’s first-aid kit since. Bought one for his car too. Keeps it next to his nail-bat in the trunk. He’s the most prepared babysitter gone video-store clerk in Indiana.

Billy takes _Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town_ and tosses it onto the floor over his shoulder. It bounces, skids, then lands just under the Christmas tree, bumping into the fake-empty-cardboard-box presents _that Steve wrapped himself_.

Steve stares at the tape. It’s the last copy in the store.

“Five bucks and a Snickers.” Billy offers.

“One of these Snickers? That’s—that’s right here? Like, _right_ here?” Without breaking eye contact Steve reaches to his left and picks one of the candy bars off the display, twirls it between his fingers to point it at Billy. “This? This one? You’re gonna give me what’s already in my hand?”

Before summer, it would be annoying and stupid and _so dumb_ how easy Steve is. Getting wound up like this. His heart kicking itself into third gear at the sight of Billy’s dimples and his bright white stupidly perfect teeth as the punchline to him being an ass. If anyone else was here, Billy wouldn’t be putting up this much of a fight for a movie. He’d settle into his spot behind the counter with Steve buffering him from Robin’s questions and Keith’s complaints, talking low so only Steve can hear him making fun of the customers and their shitty cinematic choices.

But summer happened and now Billy’s back and he’s still managing to grin at Steve like the asshole he can’t help being.

Billy’s told him _you’re nothing special. You’re Goldilocks, that’s it_. Said it with a serious face and looking at a poster of _The Outsiders_ across the room, the pendant of his necklace bitten between his front teeth. The _just right_ goes unsaid. Steve hears it anyways.

Billy bites the Snickers bar out of Steve’s hand, grins at him around it, looking wild and capable of anything and everything, the same cool new kid from California who beat Steve on the court and outside of it.

He looks like a moron.

Steve’s already lost.

They compromise.

Steve gives in. Billy does too. Steve gives in more. They watch _Jaws_. _Porky’s_. They’ve got _Airplane_ on and Steve hates to admit maybe this is better.

Billy sticks to one side of the sofa, knees poking out of ripped jeans drawn up to his chest rolling the pendant of his necklace in his mouth. A pile of candy between them. Leslie Neilson isn't enough to keep Steve’s eyes from drifting over to Billy. The rickety heater rattles before it finally kicks back on with a shot and makes Billy jump then pretend he didn’t.

Steve restocks on the candy. Grabs a couple more _Runtz_ boxes. Billy likes the banana and green apples and Steve likes all of them so he eats whatever Billy doesn’t.

Then.

Then his head explodes.

Steve didn’t expect his Christmas to be all that Jolly or filled with the Holy Spirit or shit like that. He’s realistic. He knows his place in the world being single and working a job like this. He’s not dating Nancy anymore. He doesn’t get to join in on the wholesome Wheeler family Christmas this year. He’s got no seat at that table.

All he wanted, the absolute bare minimum he could ask the man in the sky with the Rudolph led sleigh, was for no customers and a fat blunt he could smoke and watch some cartoons to.

Instead his brain goes and implodes. He throws up all over the carpet, body breaking in on itself, feels like he’s just gotten beaten up. Moving his head an inch in any direction is excruciating. The bright stinging lights from the fluorescents and the Christmas tree bombard his senses and it’s too much to keep his eyes open.

Steve’s knees get knocked out from under him. He drops the candy. The migraine of the century crashes through his skull to curb stomp his brain and beat the shit out of him.

He lies down and waits to die.

The pain will go away eventually. It did before when this happened. It’ll do it again. He just has to wait.

Everything becomes loud. The TV in the backroom. Billy running over to him. Saying his name all panicked and Steve doesn’t really _like_ hearing him say _Steve_ like this, would have liked it more if there wasn’t so much urgency behind it. Would prefer Billy to go back to sounding like a dick over the worry and concern and Steve thinks he says that, that he’s _fine_ and _it’s just a little headache migraine thing_. Nothing big. No worries. He’s not going to _actually_ die. He wants to. The pain’s, like, up there on the 1-10 pain chart the doctor showed him. But, he’s not.

He’s gonna live to see another day. Another migraine. He just has to not crack too much and beg Billy to roll his beemer’s tire over his head because, _boy_ , does that sound real good. _Pop my head like a balloon, I know you wanna_ , is what Steve really, _really_ would like to say right now.

The migraine’s the last nail in Saint Nick’s coffin.

Christmas is for other people. Not Steve. Steve gets migraines and aching joints and nightmares to pile onto the other nightmares and a damaged cornea that means he’s probably going to need glasses soon. _That’s_ what Steve gets. He’d prefer coal over god’s _fuck you_.

Billy must not believe him or it looks worse than it is. Steve’s got no clue. He’s only ever had two migraines in his life and they both happened when he was home alone where he wouldn’t embarrass himself like this.

“Can you move?” Billy asks him too loudly.

Steve shakes his head. Talking’s not for him either. Neither is getting up and walking and moving. Shaking his throbbing, pulsating in pain head is barely for him.

Billy says nothing. There’s the sound of clothes being moved around and then Billy stuffs something soft under Steve’s head—his hoodie. He’s turning off the lights and that’s a relief that has Steve sighing, lets him open his eyes enough to squint and watch Billy take his boots off and run to the _employee only_ bathroom and come back with a cold towel that he lays so damn gently on top of Steve’s forehead and their eyes meet through the darkness of the store, the pain in Steve’s head and Steve’s so—he can’t _look_ at Billy.

He snaps his eyes closed and concentrates on breathing. Like the doctors told him to do. Like his mom tells him to do when his anxiety gets to him. In and out. In and out. _In and out, in and out, in and—_

Steve listens to Billy lower the blinds on the windows, flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED, get out the cleaning supplies and mop up the mess Steve made and Steve can tell, can just _tell_ Billy’s trying to be so quiet and hates that despite all that effort it _still_ sounds like a jackhammer having a go at his skull.

It’s not right for Billy to be cleaning up after him or seeing him like this. He’s not some invalid. He’s not incapable. _He’s an independent adult._ Even his parents think so. Billy’s dealt with enough shit. Has enough of it to deal with himself.

Steve places a hand over his eyes and takes a deep breath, his chest and his back aching with it, and says into the room he can’t open his eyes to see, “you don’t have to.”

Billy’s quiet. There’s no more movement. Family Video’s gone silent. Steve can’t hear him at all. He half hopes Billy takes this cue to leave and leaves Steve to have his bodily meltdown all on his own.

“C’mon.” Billy says softly, quietly, voice so low it doesn’t quite hurt to hear him talk this time. Billy nudges at Steve’s shoulders, cups the back of Steve’s head and helps him sit up and then stand up. Steve’s head spins, swells and _thuds_ now that he’s not lying down. He makes this horrible whimper. He’s never going to live this down.

Billy pulls Steve’s arm over his shoulder and step by wobbly step, Billy walks Steve to the backroom. Slow and steady, stopping when Steve has to stop and catch his breath and just _rest_ because all the blood's left his head and the exhaustion’s set in. Steve keeps his eyes shut the entire time, trusts Billy to lead him to the couch, to help him lie down. He lifts Steve’s feet, takes his shoes off. All without being asked. It’s horrible and kind.

Billy Hargrove being _kind_.

Steve chokes up. His throat constricting tighter and tighter around the shame of being so helpless and the pain making the room spin even with his eyes closed, the hum of the VCR, the soft sound of Billy breathing fucking unbearable.

He’s never had anyone help him with this. Like this.

Blindly, without thinking—he can’t think, he can’t do anything but this—Steve reaches out and grabs at Billy, catches his hand and clutches at him with all the strength he can muster, digs his nails into that worn dumb fingerless glove and silently tells Billy _thank you_ through gritted teeth.

Billy squeezes back. Holds Steve’s trembling hand with a sure grip and both of his.

The pain fades.

All of Steve’s energy withers out of him. He falls asleep.

He wakes up with Billy’s hoodie and Billy’s jean jacket covering him like a two-part blanket.

Steve stares up at the ceiling. There’s some light slipping through the blinds. The pressure in his head has faded and it might just be a Christmas miracle.

Billy’s sitting on the floor, leaning on the couch, still holding Steve’s hand, his thumb rubbing small circles over Steve’s knuckles. His pendant’s in his mouth. He’s not wearing his gloves. Without his jackets, Steve sees the scars. Silvery vines all over Billy’s body disappearing under his shirt. Can feel them all over Billy’s hand.

 _Christ_ , Steve thinks. _Fucking Christ._

Billy’s thinner. Slower. Hunched in. Quieter when there’s people. Can’t stand being touched. Keeps at least three layers of clothing between him and the rest of the world. Steve saw his silvery scar filled palm last week for the first time since he’s been back before Billy put his glove back on and Steve nearly got struck with another realization about himself.

One awakening a year is _plenty_ and way more than he can handle anyways.

Steve rubs at his brows and groans.

When he looks back at Billy, Billy’s eyes are open and his head’s propped up on his arm, the pendant dropped from his mouth.

“What time is it?” Steve says and his own voice is—horrible. Hurts his head. Everything hurts. His neck, his back. His eyeballs. His tongue. He loosens his hand around Billy’s. Their palms are sweaty and stick together.

Billy doesn’t let him go.

He digs his watch out of his pocket. It’s digital. The light hurts to look at so Steve looks at the ceiling, the back of the couch.

“5:50.” Billy keeps his voice low. Consonants rolling smooth and rounded out of his mouth. He’s still holding Steve’s hand. He’s still touching Steve. Steve’s still touching him. “We’re snowed in.”

“I’m sorry.” Steve says. His voice cracks. He sounds like he’s about to start crying. He is, as embarrassing as that is. And it is. He won’t be able to make it to Robin’s. Billy’s wasted his entire day sitting in the dark. All because of him.

But Billy just shrugs and he squeezes Steve’s hand tighter and that makes it worse. Makes the tears well up quicker and fall down faster before he can wipe them away.

“Fuck.” Steve says. Rubs at his face and that’s not great either. That’s being obvious.

He hides in the crook of his arm. That’s a nice spot. Billy won’t be able to find him there. He can hiccup and bawl his eyes out and no one will know. He twists his tongue between his front teeth and holds back as much as he can.

Billy keeps rubbing the back of Steve’s hand.

Says, “feeling better?”

Steve laughs, wet and gross. Wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I’m not dying, so.”

“Do you have—you got any pills for this?”

The doctor gave him some medication. It’s back in his house, in his desk drawer. He doesn’t think of the bottle until he has to. Should’ve put them in his car. The first-aid kit.

Steve shakes his head and the world doesn’t end. Billy switches from drawing circles to figure-eights over Steve’s knuckles and Steve’s shivering.

“Did you stay here?” Steve says. “The whole time?”

“Took a leak, but.” _Yeah_.

Steve hears it, feels sore to his bones and all too tender in that way that makes him short of breath and warm warm _warm_.

“What a lousy way to spend Christmas, huh?” Steve says softly.

“Nah,” Billy says, slow and with more patience than Steve remembers him having. He sounds like he’s laughing. “Way better than having to watch some kiddie movie.”

It’s weird. As weird as things can get in Hawkins, this, Billy touching him gently. Sticking with him. It’s new. Not at all how they were in high school. They’d pick fights with each other every day, had Billy’s blood permanently coloring his Nikes and then just like that they’d ignore each other for weeks after before the cycle started over.

Then summer hit.

Then Billy was back in Hawkins, bruised and alive, determined to avoid everyone and stick to Steve’s side like they’d been friends the entire time.

Walked right out of a black van and into Family Video and refused to leave.

Steve volunteered to work today. Billy was here before him. Steve knew he would be.

“My parents didn’t want to—I mean.” It’s hard to say it out loud. Admit to it. “I don’t think they wanted to spend today with me. Or they just had better things to do.”

His parents love him. They just never really knew what to do with him. And that dirty fact sits out in the open. Steve waits a while for Billy to say _anything_. Peeks out from under his arm.

Billy’s got this lopsided smile. “I think I’m jealous.”

Steve barks out a laugh, unexpected and as painful as ever, but it's worth it to see Billy's smile grow.

“That’s really shitty then.” Steve says.

“Oh yeah. Complete shit fest over on Cherry Lane. You'd be jealous too.”

Steve tugs at Billy’s hand, squeezes hard. Feels bottom of the barrel gross and ridiculous, but he’s touching Billy. His skin’s on Billy’s skin. _Billy’s touching him back._

Steve moves their hands so Billy’s is resting on Steve’s chest. Billy’s fingers flex, he goes rigid.

“Can I touch you?” Billy says, soft.

Steve swallows, mouth going dry. “Yeah.”

Billy moves to kneel on the floor and he’s closer now, Steve can see the ends of his knotted, wild curls falling over his forehead, how chapped his lips are, the wet shine of his eyes—Billy reaches out and cautiously, slowly, with a shake in both his hands brushes hair out of Steve’s eyes, his fingertips lightly feathering over Steve’s skin and a tingle, sharp and bright, rushes through Steve, through the pain in his head and the aches in his body and lights him up.

Billy sits back on his heels, eyes darting around the backroom before coming back to Steve. Says, gruff, head ducked down, _shy_ , “Been waiting to do that for like a week.”

Steve holds Billy’s scarred and trembling hand in both of his. Somewhere in between they became friends. Holding him like this, having him close, Steve swells with fondness.

“Thanks, Billy.”


End file.
